


Lapis Lazuli

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguity, Future Fic, Gen, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Post-Episode s10e22 The Prisoner, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 17:16:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4028221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He goes up the stairs, and steps into the night, and through the morning. The sky blue and empty, the sky with clouds and thunder on his shoulders. The one where he starts walking and he never stops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lapis Lazuli

 

_only in reflection_

 

 

One. He goes up the stairs, and steps into the night, and through the morning. The sky blue and empty, the sky with clouds and thunder on his shoulders. The one where he starts walking and he never stops. He's not holding anymore, onto anything. His hands are calm, the fingers curled just so. Seasons pass right and left to him, but all he sees is the changing of the ground. A fall of leaves, snow resting on his arms. Sliding down and to his feet without a sound. He hasn't spoken a word in decades. When there's an old and empty house, he stays there for a while. Let's them catch up. Sits down in some old and rotten chair – it doesn't break; he's just bone and black and the ash of ever-circling fury. Because they never let him die. He stares at the wall, and waits, because time is timeless. The paint is green and peeling and nature is crawling through the cracks. The mirrors are broken into too many pieces, the floor a battleground of things lost. Turning to dust. He laughs, darkly. You can't see through the windows anymore. His eyes burn and there's a knife in his throat, the laughter barely more than coughing up blood – he's crying.

The tears trickle down his cheeks, he bows his back and turns his face into the shadows. He wishes he could feel them. He does. The rain does nothing, the whiskey does nothing – but his tears burn him still. He carries this, as he said he would. To the ends of the world, and then the beginning. But why this, he does not know. Maybe this is why they hunt him. Because he still hurts. He's still got something they can take from him. What is so valuable. He's walked past palaces, past stairways to heaven. People laughing, with kind smiles and warm faces. He can give them neither. He is the one walking the dark alleys, avoiding bumping into anything that lives. Demons, he gets. Power-hungry, and he draws them like a flame. But unless they come in numbers, pushing tide of shark-white teeth, they keep their distance. They're too scared alone. It's the others that confuse him, those that come to him with words. With hands that reach for him, careful and gentle. They scare him.

He's stopped looking at those others when they come for him. Closes his eyes, his ears. Just slips away and through the cracks. Time moves back and forth, and then the darkness pushes back and he's walking on the road again. Because it's what he does, what he has to.

Thunder is building in the distance. They are legion, they are close. But they are here for him, not to hurt anyone else. He will stop it again, like he has. Like he does. This endless pushing back and forth, this circle. He knows, he understands. It's a sea of gray. He can see it, now. His salvation. Silent as the stars that died for him, he had the magic in him the whole time.

They're here. He raises his head slowly. The crowd is hissing, laughing, whimpering. Spidery black legs, and claws, and jagged jaws of their real faces. They see his tears, and the slow beat of his red heart, and they salivate. A cursed box, and something still alive inside. Something still to hurt. They rush ahead and at him to their death. His empty hands rip into their bodies and through their insides. If the soul is still there, he rips the disease away from it, slippery like fish in his grip. Teeth and claws tear into his flesh, but this is not a pain that registers with him. A freed soul brushes against his ribs on its ascend to heaven. He can hear it sing. It makes his vision blur again, his chest stab and fall with emptiness. A hollow cathedral. He has to shrink away from its light, it's making his bones hurt and turns the fire in his blood to poison. This is not for him to have. This is a memory he cannot keep.

He extinguishes the last, and at once it's utterly silent again.

This house is empty, and the road calls him home. Beasts snapping at his heels, and it all goes down that road. Gunning for salvation. He tries to make it make him smile, but he's outside time and life. So long ago. He thinks it could have made them smile. Ah, it makes him ache again. He steps over the bodies, makes to leave, and rubs a hand over his chest while he moves. He tries not to do that; what should help only ever makes the longing more. For touch, for warmth, even though he cannot feel. Maybe that's why there are tears. Maybe there's a wound inside of him, and he's dying still. It doesn't make sense, but he's seen the sky turn upside down. Questions are not for him, who doesn't have a thing.

He shouldn't do this, but just for a moment, he chooses to walk the road in sunlight. He wants to see, and he doesn't want to be alone. He keeps his head down, and he listens. He stops, let's them walk right and left to him. Tilts his head towards the sky, and closes his eyes. Breathes deep, and just stays still. Just for a moment. Something tugs at his pant leg, around the height of his knee, and he looks down. A kid is sitting to his feet, eyes bright and brown. “You're standing on my drawing,” it complains, and shoves at his foot impatiently. He looks down, surprised, and withdraws his foot carefully. He crouches down, “ _Sorry_ ,” he thinks. The kid shrugs, bowed down over its creation again with a crayon clutched in its fist, “It's okay. It's gonna look stupid anyway.”

He inspects the drawing, upside down. There's a red house, and a big tree. Five people are outside, and a dog. There's a smiling sun, and the people and the dog are smiling too. “ _I don't think it's stupid. This is you, right?_ ” He points at the smallest person, and the kid nods. “This is me, and this is Mom and Dad.” It points at the two bigger persons next to the figure of itself. “This is Bonney, our dog.” The dog is almost as big as the people. He smiles, “ _Your dog looks frightening_.” The kid shakes its head and grins, “Nah, he's like a big baby. He likes pizza. And these are my uncles.” It points to the last two people on the drawing, who are standing under the tree and a little to the left. One of them has their hand on the shoulder of the other. They're smiling like everyone else. He is confused to find that his throat is closing up again, and there's a rushing sound in his ears. A good thing that he doesn't speak anymore. “ _They all look so happy_ ,” he thinks, and the kid shrugs, like it's normal. Then it scrunches up its nose, “My uncles are husbands. They stare at each other, and sometimes they kiss. They're worse than Mom and Dad.” It sticks out its tongue and makes an exaggerated choking sound. It makes him smile, and he huffs out a laugh, even while he can taste the salt of his tears on his lips. The kid looks up, tips its head to the side in confusion and worry. “Hey, are you okay? Are you lost?”

He sniffs, and shakes his head. Makes an effort to keep smiling. “ _No, I don't think I'm lost. Hey, don't you wanna add some stars_?” The kid looks down on its drawing again, absently playing around with a green crayon. “I wanted to do the grass next, but I hate drawing the grass. It's boring. And I wanted stars, but Dad said you can't see them by day.” It sounds disappointed by that, so he takes the yellow crayon. “ _Who cares? If you want stars, you should draw stars_.” The kid looks like it's thinking about this. “Maybe. But stars aren't easy.” He smiles, sad. “ _No, stars aren't easy. But I can help you. And with the grass, too. If you want_.” The kid nods, and brightens visibly. They draw the stars together, and a lot of grass. They get crayon stains on their fingers, and the kid just laughs when a star turns out crooked.

He looks at the finished drawing a moment longer, then he straightens. “ _I have to go now, sorry._ ” The kid looks up at him and waves, “Thank you for the stars! And the grass!” He waves back, and then turns when the kid fades from view, taking the sunlight with it. He's back, he's walking again. He never stopped. The beasts are there, howling at the roadside. The things that go past him, those that neither live nor are they dead. So old, so many things. The stars and the grass, the beginning and the end. And over again. He rubs a hand over his chest. He's seen the sky turn upside down, and he's dying again.

He's walking, and there will be other houses. Again. He's walking towards those that need his guidance, and away from them, and towards them again. Thunder on his shoulders, and he wonders if that's what dreaming is like. _They all look so happy_. Under the stars.

The road is a corridor now, long and deep and red. The doors are wood and black. For a moment, he expects them to turn into a forest, deep and green. He doesn't know why. He turns around halfway, and there the others are. But it's only one. He hadn't expected them to follow him still, not after all this time. One other, looking steadily at him. He shivers, and suddenly misses his voice. He knows the other can hear him, but somehow, it doesn't seem like the same. The other makes another step towards him, hands moving restlessly. He smiles, sad and tired, “ _You know I have to keep walking_.”

The other shakes a head, makes a frustrated noise. Keeps looking at him. He thinks he recognizes something in those eyes – the sky when you can't see the stars. A memory he cannot keep. His chest thumps hollowly, and the road is calling him. Home. He sniffs and smiles, can barely see. Maybe it's raining. Under the sun.

“ _It's okay. Somewhere else, we're all happy. We're all smiling. You will see_.” He turns from the other and only looks at the black wooden ground again, even while the ache spreads from his chest to the tips of his fingers. But he never stops walking. This circle. He knows, he understands. He has seen it, now. Their salvation. He goes through the corridor, and steps into the night, and through the morning.


End file.
